Art
by Feilyn
Summary: Peeta uses painting as a way of dealing with his PTSD. Katniss can't stand it.


He paints her, sometimes.

She knows when he's doing it, too. Not because she enters the room they've set aside as a studio for him; that's his sanctuary, and one she doesn't approach unless he's invited her. No, she can tell because of the way his expression darkens when he sees her, how his hands twitch with greater frequency. It becomes impossible to sleep, because she can't sleep without him and he can't stand to be in such proximity to her, getting up every half an hour to take a walk around the house before returning to her a little less on edge, but still jittery.

She hates it. Wants to charge into that room and rip the canvas off its easel, tear it up, make it stop – existing. Or something. He hates it too, because he remembers her now, remembers that he loves her, has always loved her. She can't imagine what it's like for him, locked in his own head, trapped by memories that are both his and not his. Sometimes she wishes that she could, though, that she was the one who had been hijacked and he was the one who had to deal with the aftermath, because it _hurts_ to see him look at her like he does, that split second flash where he'd like nothing more than to murder her before he remembers himself.

She can't help but think he would have been better at dealing with it, too. He was a better person than her, before the Capitol broke him. Is probably still a better person.

It never takes long, though, for all that it feels like forever when they're stuck in the middle of it. He becomes a man possessed when it happens, not stopping to eat, only attempting sleep once exhaustion finally takes him over. Two, maybe three days – five is the longest, and she doesn't ever want to go through that again – and then he's done, whatever poison that had built up inside him finally drained. She wishes it could end there, wishes that he could be done and have done with it, but Katniss learnt long ago that the universe has no care for her wishes. He comes to her the moment it's complete, always unerringly aware of just where she's set up camp in the too-large house (not that she makes it difficult for him, disliking being too far away when he's in this state, needing to keep an eye on him).

They stare at each other for a moment, his body tense but his expression solemn, the hatred excised yet having left an open wound behind it. She pulls herself to her feet and follows him wordlessly; the studio when she enters it is in disarray, and she tries to avoid seeing the overturned chair, the sight of things thrown in frustration and anger. He only ever does that when he's painting her, too.

Not looking around her means staring straight ahead, though, at the thing he brought her here to see in the first place. She swallows, staring at herself, rendered perfectly in harsh lines and dark colours. The studio, his sanctuary, is a light and airy place but for this painting, a mixture of memories both real and belonging solely to him that sucks out everything good in the air. The lines of her body are strong, proud, rising unharmed out of the flaming world around her; she sees her face and remembers Cinna, the dark and dramatic make-up deemed appropriate for the Quell, so far away now. And then there's her expression, the twist to her mouth, the light in her eyes. She remembers being untouchable and unforgiving, but here she is cruel, cold despite the flames surrounding her. The girl on fire, all burned up inside.

"Real or not real?" he asks her, and though his tone is soft, the words are like needles piercing her all over.

"Not real." Her reply is instant, voice is hoarse when she says it. She doesn't turn to look at him, rooted to the spot. "It's not real."

And just like that, it's as if someone pulled a plug on the dark tension in the room. Behind her he exhales, and she manages to tear her eyes away from his latest masterpiece to watch him walk around her, towards it. Before he can touch it, though, she finds her voice again.

"Real or not real? Peeta?" It shakes when she speaks, but she thinks she's allowed. Considering the circumstances.

Carefully, he removes the painting from the easel, gives it one final look. And then without turning to face her at all, he crosses the room. It's not dry yet, but he leans it up against the wall anyway, the only thing now visible to the outside world being white canvas and the wooden skeleton that holds it together.

That done, he finally faces her. She stands there in the middle of the studio, stock still as he approaches, and waits for an answer. He reaches out and touches her cheek, and she closes her eyes, feeling her breath quicken and her heart beat faster.

"Real," he whispers, and his hand slides from her check down her neck, thumb skimming her pulse, before it comes to rest on her shoulder, and then her arms are moving of their own accord, winding around his waist and tugging him to her. He returns the embrace, lips pressing feather light to the top of her head as she buries her face in his chest "You're real, Katniss."


End file.
